Measured By His Heart
by BlackElement7
Summary: Sometimes, Matthew wonders why he even bothers. Alfred's thoughts run along a similar vein. North American bonding.


**Again, plot bunnies attacking during writing camp. The constraints for this fic were: two characters, one conflict, it must be realistic, it must be read aloud in three minutes or less, and it must contain the words Frisbee, paint, star, and umbrella. If you'd like to replace the word "Frisbee" with "baseball", by all means do so. Haha, that's what it would have been anyway...**

**This is the piece that made one of my classmates stand up and ask me, "Do you read Hetalia?" and then I jumped her. *sniffs* Good times. Also, if you catch the reference in the title, kudos to you. (*snickers* I called Mattie a hero...)**

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Matthew just barely misses catching the Frisbee, his fingers closing around empty air. His brother laughs at him as the wind is knocked out of him and he crumples to the ground, clutching his stomach.

"You're so bad at sports, Mattie!" Alfred crows, doubled over in mirth. "You should've seen your face—"

When the pain subsides, Matthew picks himself up off the lush green grass and dusts his clothing off. Even though he knows his efforts are in vain, he needs something to do so that Alfred won't see him squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. But it seems that there's no escaping his brother; when he focuses on the grass stains on his jeans, all he can think of is the time they redecorated his room, when the taller blonde decided that his boring brother needed more colour in his life and flung paint all over his clothing and carpet.

"Are you done brushing yourself off yet?" Alfred calls from where he has staggered to his feet. "Jeez, Mattie. You don't have to have perfect clothing all the time! A little grass on you is healthy!"

Matthew snatches the Frisbee up from the ground, his grip so tight that his knuckles are the colour of milk. He tries to breathe through his nose and reminds himself that murder is frowned upon in this day and age—and that of a brother, even more so.

"I'll get it next time," he mutters through gritted teeth, tossing the toy through the air. It wobbles its way toward his brother, but falls short three feet away from his outstretched hand.

Alfred has already lost interest. "Let's go home." It isn't a request; he's going to start walking home, and if Matthew doesn't follow, he's going to be left behind.

Sighing in frustration, Matthew runs to catch up with his brother's long strides. Along the way he stoops down to snag both the abandoned Frisbee and a black messenger bag from where it was abandoned earlier this afternoon. He knows his way back; he has no problem walking in the dark. But he doesn't trust Alfred to get himself home alone. With the attention span of a potted plant, he'd probably see a star and think it a spaceship, then run off to follow it and completely forget to come home.

"Hey, I think something fell on me! Eww, I hope it wasn't a bird pooping on me…" Alfred's voice sounds from up ahead.

Matthew peers up at the sky and sighs. "It's not bird poop, Al; it's starting to rain." He fumbles around in the bag slung over his shoulder for an umbrella; when he finds it, he unfolds it and holds it over his head.

"Aw, man, that's so not cool!" Alfred whines, his sneakers trampling the grass underfoot. "I forgot to take Artie's iPod out of my pocket; if it gets wet, he'll kill me! He'll feed me _scones_, or something!"

Matthew considers their neighbour's cooking, pictures black, smoking _objects_ being force-fed to his brother, and feels a pang of pity. Alfred might deserve to die sometimes, but—what a way to go.

He sighs again—he seems to do that a lot around Alfred—and tilts the umbrella in his direction. "Come on, then." When Alfred only gives him a befuddled expression, he rolls his eyes. "Get under here before it starts to rain for real, eh?"

Alfred whoops in glee and scoots under the umbrella—large enough for two people, because Matthew knew that Alfred wouldn't bother to bring one.

"You saved me, Mattie!"

Matthew shakes his head, shifting his grip on the umbrella so that Alfred is adequately sheltered.

Alfred glances sidelong at him. "Hey, Mattie…" His voice is subdued, positively miniscule compared to his usual shouting.

"Yes?"

"Why are you always so nice to me? I mean, I know I'm awesome, but sometimes—"

In reply, Matthew pulls the umbrella back towards him until Alfred can feel the rain just barely grazing his face. "Idiot," he grumbles, watching the other boy yelp out of the corner of his eye. "No matter what, you're still my brother."

**End.**

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** I totally would have put in some North American fluff, but... I called them brothers, and not everyone outside of the APH-fandom is so tolerant of borderline incest. So fluffy brother-interactions it is. XD**


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